


Call Me a Spark, and I'll Be an Inferno

by the_writer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Danny Knows, F/M, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_writer/pseuds/the_writer
Summary: The championship game was something Stiles hadn't thought about until Coach had brought it up, something Stiles had forgotten in order to make room for Matt's death and Peter's resurrection and Allison's hunting. Something he forgot with the kanima walking among them.But he goes anyways, for Scott, and it leads to him with a gun to his back and dying hunter behind the trigger.





	Call Me a Spark, and I'll Be an Inferno

Beacon Hills was a strange place; a small town with its own school system and local library and police department, and even a shady laundry mat on the corner of Pike and Valley Avenue. It was a small town, not small enough that if you blinked you’d miss it, but it was discreet and out of the way of the freeways and highways to become an unnoticeable name on the California road map.

But Beacon Hills wasn’t strange in the sense of its library and the amount of books on myths and lore, or the sense that it's school system only taught two languages, or that little Mrs. Reed running the laundry mat on Pike and Valley seemed to know far too much about everyone’s lives, but rather how no one seemed to open their eyes. 

In the beginning of it all, Stiles was terrified that the town would find out about Scott or the Hales or anything about the things which went bump in the night. But, he soon realized that the people of Beacon Hills didn’t particularly care; not about the animal attacks, or the cougar that was taken down at the school, or the strange noises coming from the preserve in the dead of night. 

The only reaction the town gave was a bit of bar talk and the one time Stiles was picking up food late one night on a full moon. 

“Strange things happen out there, Stiles. Just hurry home.”

Stiles had just nodded and thanked for the food, and headed out to the preserve anyways. He was picking up food for a reason, and Scott had been desperate a burger. 

But then things went wrong, and then it wasn’t the town who was strange, but rather Scott, and Lydia, and Derek, and Allison, and even Stiles. 

Because Scott would start to pull his phone out in the middle of class and text someone, or sneak off after lacrosse practice while punching in a phone number Stiles didn’t recognize. Or because Lydia just returned from wandering the preserve stark naked, and that even she didn’t know or remember why. Or that Derek had started biting every insecure teenager in Beacon Hills with a promise for a better life, all the while morphing them into the bullies they once feared. Or that Victoria Argent had just died and Allison was grieving in a manner with an arrow directed right at every one of their throats. 

Because even if they had supernatural duties and personal problems which each and every one of them held desperately to their chests like their own personal Pandora’s box, Scott convinces them to go to the championship game because the problem of the week is only temporary and school is priority. 

It’s that kind of thinking which lands Stiles on the freezing metal bench off the side of the patchy green field, lacrosse stick in his right hand, helmet in his left, and his best friend at his side. 

It’s a tense second when Scott simply stares out onto the field, leg hopping up and down as he watches patiently. Patience, another thing Stiles envies.

“You know what’s going on?” Stiles asks, watching Scott at the corner of his eye flicker his gaze this way and that.

“Not yet.” Scott grits out, eyes still darting about as he speaks.

Stiles doesn't need to be a wolf to see his friend's tense shoulders and pursed lips to know the lie bared in front of him.

“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?” Stiles sighs, digging the toe of his shoe into the dirt, next to a wadded up gum wrapper, “I mean people screaming, running for their lives - blood, killing, maiming - that kind of bad?”

He looks over to see Scott, his gaze still on the field, dark brown eyes flickering from player to player. Stiles runs a hand through his short hair and looks about, sensing that Scott was only half listening to what Stiles had just said. 

It was sort of terrifying; the people cheering, the laughter, the chatter, a baby crying near the parking lot and a fussing mother, a gaggle of girls talking to the young referee. It was terrifying how it could all end, how it would all end. How they would try to stop it but in the end they were sixteen, young and dumb, trying to save lives. 

“Looks like it,” Scott confirms, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he turned away from the field to the crowd behind them, searching for what Stiles could assume for Allison, maybe his mom. 

Stiles licks his lips, scanning the field. Everything seemed normal. Like, before-shit-hit-the-fan-and-Laura-came-to-town-and-Peter-woke-up kind of normal. That it was still Scott and Stiles, brother from another mother, womb to tomb, brothers in arms, warming the bench for all of eternity as cleats hit the turf, pounding down as people roared with their multicolored signs as warm ups commenced. How it was civil enough, still normal beyond the shouting and cursing between the rival teams as the coaches and refs kept their teams and Finstock in check. 

It was normal, and that terrified Stiles to no end. 

But nothing was normal now, not with werewolves and insane hunters and kids with revenge issues. Not when most of the staff at the station is dead, and things were falling apart at their feet, and Stiles was only human and could only do so much. 

“Scott,” Stiles speaks, brushing another hand through his hair again as his best friend tears his eyes away from the audience, looking Stiles in the eye. Stiles breaks it and looks at the players, the movement distracting him enough to speak, “the other night - seeing my dad get hit over the head by Matt, you know, while I was just lying there and can’t even move,” he hesitates, not wanting to say it, not wanting admit his flaws and make everything all too real. He ignores the train of thought and leaves it to be forgotten. “I just want to help. You know, I can’t do the things you can do.”

“It’s okay,” Scott cuts in, clear and determined as Stiles chances a glance up at his brother, holding their gaze.

Stiles looks away, up towards the field again as Greenberg trips on his own feet. “We’re losing, dude.”

Scott gives him a weird look, “The hell are you talking about? The game hasn’t even started.”

Opening his mouth to speak, to tell him how he wasn’t talking about the lacrosse match, Scott abruptly stands and rushes over to Coach, the man’s jaw already tense and eyes already looking for a target. Stiles watches as a yelling match commences as Scott tries to worm himself into the game, Stiles picking up the words ‘not allowed’ and ‘failing three classes’. 

Pulling his eyes away, Stiles watches as Jackson makes his way across the field, clouds of frozen breath catching in the stadium lights. Waiting anxiously on the bench, Stiles can see Jackson approach Danny, who is already halfway to his position as Jackson draws Danny into conversation. It's quiet and hushed, one which Stiles is positive that even without the din, no wolf could ever hear. It was when Danny stumbled a back did Stiles leave the bench, grip tightening on his lacrosse stick, legs ready to propel him forward, but Jackson simply walked away, turning on his heel like nothing he said was importance.

He watches as Danny recovers and goes back to his goal, looking over his shoulder every now and then as Stiles drags his gaze to Jackson, and then to Scott, who seems to be just ending his fruitless endeavor against Coach, sitting heavily on the bench with slumped shoulders.

Stiles moves to join Scott, maybe say something that might cheer his best friend up, but a familiar grating whistle breaks through the air as the team starts to gather around Finstock, the man sifting through which players would be lucky enough to play, and those who would be riding the bench. 

Stiles doesn’t bother to listen about plays or the obscure information Coach had managed to drag up about the other team. He doesn’t care about it - not when Matt’s dead, Allison is working with Gerard, Peter is alive, Derek and his pack is MIA, and Melissa didn't dare to meet any of their eyes. It left a bitter feeling in his stomach, something unsettling hanging in the air, something most of them preferred to keep to themselves. 

He scans the bleachers as he picks up a few familiar faces, the girl who sat behind him in English, Lydia, her strawberry blonde curls bobbing as she herself searched for her missing best friend. Stiles could watch as Melissa climbed into the empty spot next to Lydia, talking quickly as the woman then looked up, meeting Stiles’s eyes. She looked flushed, wide eyed and looking a lot how Stiles felt - way in over her head. 

The sharp sound of the whistle blared once more, and the team split into three groups, the first line, minus Scott, running onto the field, eliciting a roar of joyous cheers from the crowd, as second line went to the first bench, as Scott and Stiles headed to the second bench. Just like old times. 

The players took their places, looking like pawns on a chess board, moving to another’s wishes, puffs of breath illuminated in the harsh stadium lights, shadows dancing across the green, taunting and knowing, pulling at people heels as Jackson approached center stage. 

They were down a werewolf and up a kanima.

Stiles busies himself with re-lacing his stick, despite already doing it earlier that morning in Morrell's office, talking about hell and agony. Seemed fitting for their situation. 

Stiles numbly feels Scott tense besides him, straightening as he looks left and right, trying to pinpoint something Stiles just _can’t_ focus on as well. He already has too much to think about, to worry about, to figure a way out of this mess. 

He needs a plan, but he doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know where Derek is or why Isaac is here, but not Erica or Boyd. He doesn’t know what Melissa saw exactly in the station for her to start avoiding her own son, or why she looks at Stiles in fear and distrust. He doesn’t know why his father bothered to show up tonight, or why it had to be tonight, where somebody could possibly die. He doesn’t know what Scott has been doing lately, sometimes fine and happy but sometimes ducking around corners and talking on the phone or texting someone who isn’t Allison. He doesn’t know why Derek suddenly wants Scott in his pack. He doesn’t know why Matt was so fascinated by Allison or why she has joined with Gerard. He doesn’t know what makes Gerard so motivated to get to Derek, or why Victoria killed herself. He doesn't know what was wrong with Lydia or where Chris stood in all of this. 

Stiles hisses as his knuckle hits a jutting hook, taking off a layer of skin as his fingers tremble, holding the white lace between his fingers as he tries again, nearly ready to ask Scott for help when he turns to see himself alone. He looks around to see Scott and Melissa talking off to the side, her hands on his shoulders, her hair frazzled and messy, as John and Lydia sit in the stands with freezing hands and rosy cheeks. 

A hard hand clasped onto his shoulder and the lacrosse stick slips from his fingers, arms flailing while jumping to his feet to see Coach standing there, a grimace set into his features with his arms crossed, looking at Stiles with a disbelieving look. 

Stiles didn’t like that kind of look, it was the look of someone with nothing left to lose, and dammit why was it directed at him?

Finstock sighs and pulls Stiles in closer, shoving his forgotten helmet into his unwilling arms, “Put on your helmet and get out there. You’re in for Greenberg,” Finstock snaps, pursing his lips, a gleam in his eyes which Stiles can pinpoint as a small midlife crisis. 

Stiles gapes, barely remembering how to close his mouth before speaking, “What? What happened to Greenberg?” 

If Jackson was already taking down players, then there was no way in hell Stiles was going out there. 

Coach scoffs, “What happened to Greenberg? He sucks!” Finstock’s features contort in disdain, “You suck slightly less.”

“I’m playing? On the field? With the team?” Stiles flails, this surely wasn’t happening. He was the last resort, the one that no one really wanted on the team but they were required a certain amount of people on the team in order to go to championships. He was not supposed to _play_ in said championships. 

Coach gives him a scathing look, and rolls his eyes, “Yes, unless you’d like to play with yourself.” 

Stiles swallows, thinks for a moment, words tumbling out of his mouth without thinking, “I already did that today, twice.”

Horrified looks stained both of their faces as Coach yelled. “Get the hell out there!” 

Pursing his lips and nodding, Stiles stepped onto the field, knees a bit shaky, hands trembling as he shoved on his helmet and shucked on his gloves. He tapped Greenburg on the shoulder and swapped places, setting his feet apart, bracing for impact. He would just stay out of the way, hang back and fall back early. He would just watch Jackson from afar, away from the ball, and hopefully would be pulled from the game and replaced by someone else. 

It was a solid plan, a good equation with an outcome which left him and Scott alive and well. 

They whistle blew and people started to move, and within an instant Jackson was gone, a sea of black, white, and maroon flooding the turf as Stiles started to run with them, skirting on the edge of the action, trying to latch his eyes on #37 as everyone kept _moving_. 

Annoyance growing, Stiles runs along side his teammates, his lungs burning, always making sure to be blocked by someone from the other team so he never got the ball, and watched patiently. 

Eventually the game slowed as the opposing team scored, rushing back to their side of the field, Stiles immediately raking his eyes over the players as Jackson comes into view, harsh breath erupting from his helmet, already getting into position as another player tagged someone else out of the game. Number 14. 

They were now up a werewolf, but still had a kanima to deal with, but it didn’t seem like Scott would be joining them anytime soon.

Isaac got into position, looking over his shoulder at Stiles as he gets ready as well.

“I hope you have enough control for this, Fluffy.” Stiles mutters, watching as Isaac flashes him a toothy grin and taking off as the whistle blows. 

He keeps his game up, ducking behind another player every time a teammate looks for someone to pass to, keeping on eye on both Isaac and Jackson, and making sure to look useful, but not part of the action. He just needs to make sure everyone else is safe, that if anything starts going wrong, that he knows where he needs to be. He needs to see the whole board in order to act. 

“Lahey! Seriously? What is your problem?!” A yell breaks out, a voice Stiles knows well in that exact tone. 

Stiles turned to watch as Isaac plucked his teammates from the field one by one, a blur of red and white and gold. He hangs back as he watches Jackson collide with Isaac, watches them tumble and for a moment, both stand, both alright. But it's slow, as he watches Isaac fall in the center of the field. Maybe he fell, broke a bone, tripped, or- why wasn’t he getting up? 

Taking a step back, Stiles watches as Coach rush over with the referee, school nurse being dragged along as they ask Isaac a few things before carrying him off the field, Scott running alongside the gurney as their lips move. Stiles can see something which freezes Scott in place, Coach coming up from behind him as he drags Scott onto the field, dropping his helmet into his pliant hands and clapping him on the back before blowing the whistle, forcing everyone into position. 

It's the middle of the play when Stiles catches Scott make his way off the field to the locker rooms, no one else none the wiser of the missing co-captain. 

They were down two werewolves, and still up a kanima. 

Stiles stops in his tracks as a flurry of motion commences around him, no one paying him any mind as they take the game further down field, leaving Stiles alone, stock still in the wake of torn turf and mud splattering across his uniform, his breath coming out as clouds, eaten by the oncoming winter air and harsh spotlights. A sense of dread sprawling across his spine as he stood, watching everything unfold, the cold wind brushing past the mesh on his helmet, striking his face as something rolls to his feet, bumping lightly into his cleat and rolling into a shallow dip in the green. 

Looking down, Stiles rests his gaze on the small white ball at his feet, waiting quietly after being nudged by fate the entire way there. Whipping his head up, expecting another player to come slamming into him for it, he watches with shocked eyes as his teammates starting looking all over the field for it, then back to the ball, then to the crowd. He shrugs, not seeing why this wouldn’t be a bad idea, no one had noticed him yet anyways, and flicks the ball into his net. Fate decided to then point someone in his direction.

“24 has the ball!” 

“Ah, crap.” Stiles mutters, backpedaling as he turns on his heel and breaks into a dead run, not waiting for backup or a helping hand, just hightailing it out of there in hopefully the right direction. 

Stiles forces his legs faster, adrenaline pumping as everything goes silent, his breath rushing in and out, a thick fog unfurling from the shadows of his headgear and palms sweaty in his padded gloves. He numbly can hear his peers on the bleachers, the cheering, the yelling, the general noise Stiles never once thought would ever be directed at him. It almost makes him stop, because he can’t do this, he isn’t a star player or anyone even remotely okay, but it feels _good_. 

He shudders to a stop soon enough, knees buckling but refusing to let him fall as the mouth of the goal stands before him. He can hear it all though, the people screaming at him to shoot, to go for it, the pounding of both teams at his heels, the shouting for him to shoot the damn ball before it's too late. But something stops him as the world watches him, bares down on him, every insult Coach had ever said about his skills, every time he wasn’t fast enough to keep up with Scott, every times Lydia ignored him,every time he got in Derek's way. What if he wasn’t good enough? What if he missed? 

Through all of the voices and noise he can hear his father’s voice filtering in through the crowd, Lydia calling him an idiot and it's too loud, too loud, _too loud_.

He can feel the stomping getting closer and the air is warming at his back and between him and the goal and playing a normal game of lacrosse is a single goalie and it's not Danny and there is no reason not to. 

He reels back his arm, the net feeling heavy and there's a warmth spreading through his chest and he knows it's the cold getting to him, an animalistic thing pushing him forward, lighting him up from the inside out. He squeezes his eyes shut and throws his arms forward, opening his eyes as he watches the ball soar forward. It moves slowly, and yet far too fast, the goalie moving forward, the lip of the wide net clipping the ball and-

-it went in. 

A throng of bodies rush past him, shoving at his shoulders as he loses himself in a sea of black and white and red, smiles and praises showering upon him from people he never thought he would ever receive it from, and in the distance the click of the timer stopping. With bated breath, Stiles watches the scoreboard, watching the angry red numbers slowly turn. Eight to eight. Tie. 

They were tied. 

They were tied because of him. 

He could feel a grin pulling at his cheeks, relief and hope flooding his system as he refused to acknowledge the happiness bubbling in his stomach. But his father was smiling and looked so damn _proud_. Melissa was hugging Lydia and he couldn’t stop the laugh escaping his throat, but no matter how many times he told himself that something was wrong, everything was so damn _right_.

The whistle blew and on numb feet Stiles moved, getting harsh claps on the back and smiles and cheers and he felt appreciated and warm.

He hunkered down into a ready position, not thinking about Jackson or Matt or Isaac or Scott or of kanimas and hunters, just focusing on getting the ball and making his dad proud of him without any lies or closed doors. 

The flute sounded and Stiles leapt forward, spinning around the first oncoming opponent and dodging the second, rushing forward along the outskirt of the field, rushing along the outside of the battle watching carefully for any signs of the ball. Eventually the ball made it's way on the opposite side of the field, but Stiles stayed his course, watching as the hoard of players surged to the same spot, tackling and shoving as desperate attempts to reach for the small white ball. 

It was in the chaos that the ball flew skyward, and everyone froze, watching intently as it arched, a glowing star in the night as it glowed in the light, defiant and strong as it plummeted, losing its grace as it fell, clumps of grass flying as Stiles rushed, chest tightening as he breathed, clouds erupting from his helmet as he dived, a player from the opposing team right on his heels as he scooped up the ball and twisted, an elbow brushing against his jersey as his foot tripped on his own heel. Stiles cratered forward, falling hard on his right palm but scooping himself up as the earth itself rumbled under his skin. 

He takes off, the flat field nothing compared to the preserve at night, flat and even, slick with dew and mud but better than slipping on decaying leaves and roots. No, it wasn’t the terrain, it was the people behind him, but for an odd reason, that spurred him on, because some of those people were on his side, and that felt _good_. 

When he reaches the goal a second time, he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t stop and think, not about the what ifs or the insults or the cheering and the hope which he could destroy, but rather just acting. He arcs his arms and throws strong, a tingling in his fingertips as he _hopes_ and watches the small white ball hit the net. 

The explosion of noise startles Stiles as he steps back, people surging at him with smiles and “Good job, Stilinski” and “Never knew you had it in you”. He gets pushed and pulled and punched and it's all good and he can’t wipe the stupid smile on his face and he finally understands why Scott loved lacrosse despite his asthma way back in the day. 

“We won!” Stiles breathes, a smile on his face, his heart starting to slow as he sees his dad smiling at him as Lydia claps with a small smile on her face as Melissa watches him proudly. “Nothing happened.” Stiles grins, relief flooding him all at once, “Nothing.”

It was before Stiles could wipe his smile off his face when ‘nothing’ turned into ‘something’ as a loud clack was heard and the lights died at once. It was in the dark did Stiles sober because this was Beacon Hills, where things were never normal and always something strange happened. This was where a kanima was on the loose and where the Argents were looking for war. This was never going to be normal, this was where people died. 

Stiles stood still as another loud clack sounded and the lights glowed once more and someone screamed. It echoed off the trees and then people scattered, some ducking away with their phones to their ears, some calling for the police, some for an ambulance, some asking for their parents to pick them up because a kid is on the ground and some of his organs are on the outside and not the inside. 

Stiles almost steps forward, part of him eager to know who it is, another part wanting to hightail it out of there, because his dad is out there and what if Jackson is out there hurting him or Melissa or Lydia. 

More and more people start to peel away from the circle surrounding the fallen player, and Stiles can slowly see a stained white and red jersey, blond hair and pale skin, then a meticulously maintained high end cleat. His heart sinks as Stiles backs up slowly, his skin growing cold as he wrenches his helmet off and lets it drop to the ground because he knows those cleats. He made fun of them the minute they showed up in the locker room at the beginning of the year, because it was high school lacrosse, and only Jackson Whittemore would buy something so ridiculously high end for a high school sport. 

More people leave as their parents arrive and Jackson still lies on the ground, Melissa McCall hovering over him as she tries to keep pressure on the wound but Stiles can see that there is no movement in his chest and his eyes are staring out into the night sky, a thick unseeing shine to them as the sheriff, his dad approaches, wards off the few oncoming curious peoples and goes to join Melissa. 

He takes a step back and hits something hard, stilling his movement because _a wall shouldn’t be there_ and _a wall shouldn’t be breathing or smell like gunpowder and nonenal_.

But it's when something is pressed against his waist from the behind and the subtle _click_ reaches his ears does Stiles freeze. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, doesn’t try anything because he can’t do what Scott can do, and even if he could, he would probably still be in the same position he is in now. 

“You’re a smart boy, Stiles.” A voice speaks low in his ear, “So much like Scott, always rushing in to save your friends.” A warm breath wafted over his ear, making it hard for Stiles to suppress a shudder, his skin crawling as Gerard shuffled even closer. “But you don’t care about them right now, do you? Because you may run with the wolves, but your father takes priority, doesn’t he? That’s a proud moral, to take care of your family no matter what obstacles.” 

Stiles starts to breathe, but the gun instead was buried deeper into the underside of his rib, “What do you want?”

“Come with me.”

“What? No threat on my father’s life if I don’t?” Stiles grinds out, watching his father’s back as he talks on his cell, watching an already dead Jackson lying uselessly on the ground. 

A strong hand grabs at the neck of his shirt, pads and all, and reels him back in, “Like I said, you’re a smart boy, Stiles. I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if you even try to scream.”

A rough shove spun him around like a rag doll, blunt thin nails scraping against his skin as he was dragged to his feet, pressing barrel deeper as he frog marched his way into the forest, his feet stumbling over the fallen branches and roots littering the animal trail. 

It was hard to see, the night sapping away any trace of light, thick rain clouds covering the waxing moon as the lights surrounding the field slowly dispersed as trees became more dense. In the distance he can hear a pair of sirens, one of them Stiles can peg as a police cruiser, the other he can only guess to be an ambulance. 

The lights were fading, and Stiles started to trip and slide more, cursing as he slid on moldy leaves and as the gun would dig deeper into his back, as if he was doing it on purpose, Gerard gritting out a warning every time. 

Stiles started to wonder how long they would be walking, it felt like a while. But it had also felt like a while when he first ran with Scott on the full moon, what he had thought to be hours only turning out to be five minutes. His friend had practically been doing laps around him, grinning all the while, never leaving Stiles’ side despite the human’s usherings. But it had been bright then, not a cloud in the sky and they had stuck to east side of the preserve, where the trees were sparse and gangly. It had been brightly lit back then, but it was much darker here, not a single bit of light filtering through the thick canopy. It made Stiles wonder how the hell Gerard had been able to stay upright for so long.

“Pretty spry for an old man, aren’t you?” Stiles grunted, stumbling again on a rock protruding from the ground. 

His answer is a shove to the right and the ground meeting his cheek. A yelp escaped his throat as his jaw hit something rough, his gloved hands taking the brunt of the impact as he lies there for a moment, contemplating how far it would be until it was okay for him to make a run for it, but he lifted himself up slowly, coarse gravel slipping through his fingers as he heaved, the door of a car greeting him as he turned over to sit on his butt, legs sprawling and arms useless in his lap. 

The barrel of the gun was shoved uselessly in front of his face, Gerard flicking it towards the car for Stiles to start moving. But Stiles just sat. He knew Gerard wouldn’t kill him here, not when he obviously wanted to get out of the preserve, and to someplace else to do whatever Gerard does, and then probably kill him. 

But Stiles never claimed to be smart, never claimed to have a good head on his shoulders. That’s where Scott always came in. He had the morals, the righteousness which disapproved of almost all of Stiles’ plans. Didn’t mean they never went through with said plans, they were just always ready for the consequences. 

But this also wasn’t like the time where Scott and Stiles stole Mr. Harris’ mailbox for three months in a row, because he didn’t point a gun at his face, and Stiles wasn’t alone. 

“You know, my dad always told me not to get into strange people’s cars.” Stiles spoke, fairly sure his father also told him to not give sass if he ever was kidnapped.

“And my father said to leave no survivors.” Gerard grinned.

Shit. 

Groaning, Stiles slowly stood. Jumping back as the doors of the car opened, two men dressed in black and armed to the teeth stepping out into the small clearing as the closest one grabbed Stiles roughly by the shoulder, hauling him into the car with short work. Flinching as the car door slammed, Stiles looked about. It was a clean car, nothing he could hide behind or use, not even a scuff of dirt on the flooring as Gerard slid into the driver’s seat, before pulling something out of his pocket. 

Stiles tried to think back to what Scott had told him, something about cancer, something fatal. It was the only reason Stiles could guess why Gerard wanted to get to Derek so badly. 

Shifting in his seat as the two other men piled in, one in the passenger seat, the other strapping in next to Stiles, guns resting lightly in their laps with the safety off, but not cocked. The backseat was probably the worst place to be for Stiles, with the door clicking as they locked and no way for him unlock the doors. Or at least, not without being obvious, and in the three seconds he could try to jump and roll, he could have a bullet in his stomach. 

But he had two options, either twist around in his seat to undo the emergency latch or get out of his pads and reach his arm through the gap of the driver’s seat and window, and hopefully press the right button to unlock the door. 

Either way, it wasn’t good. But it was when Stiles got out that would be the problem. If he had his pads on, it would lessen the fall, but without, and depending on the speed, it wasn’t a likely chance to be able to run afterwards. 

The SUV flared to life as Stiles slouched, refusing to put on his seat belt as the car started to turn around, slowly making it's way back up a gravel path, sliding seamlessly onto the main road. 

Stiles didn’t know how long they would be driving, much less how long they could be. But if Gerard wanted to keep things moving in Beacon Hills towards his favor, Stiles could guess it would be someplace in town. And if it was in town, Scott could find him. 

But Scott was the one who disapproved of his bad ideas, and Scott wasn’t there. And Stiles thinks he’s about to do something very, very stupid.


End file.
